“Oooo-wowwww! Fibbixxx! Go get ’em Sixth, bay-bee!”
“Will you cease making incomprehensible mouth-noises and tell me what’s taking place? My eyes are not fully focused yet, but I can see that you are bouncing around in your seat in a manner that is in no way related to ship actions.”
Bran was too far gone to hear. The scene on the screen was correspondingly weak, but fully visible nonetheless. It resembled a ping-pong game being played in zero gravity by two high-speed computers. The AAnn force was in full retreat, or rather, the remainder of it was. The bright darts of Commonwealth stingships were weaving in and out of the retreating pattern with characteristic unpredictability. Occasionally a brief, terse flare would denote the spot where another ship had departed the plane of material existence. And a voice drifted somehow over the roaring, screaming babble on the communicator, a voice that could belong to no one but Major Gonzalez. Over and over and over it repeated the same essential fact in differing words.
“What happened what happened what happened what . . .?”
Bran at this time suffered his second injury of the action. He sprained a lattisimus, laughing.
It was all made very clear later, at the court martial. The other members of the Task Force had seen one of their members break position and dive on the AAnn formation. Their pilot-pairings had stood the resultant engagement as long as possible. Then they began to peel off and follow. Only the cruiser Altair had taken no part in the battle. Her crew had a hard time living it down, even though it wasn’t their fault.
Not so much as a tree on the planet had been scorched.
The presiding officer at the trial was an elderly thranx general officer from the Hiveworld itself. His ramrod stiffness combined with fading exoskeleton and an acid voice to make him a formidable figure indeed. As for the majority of the Task Force, its members were exonerated of wrongdoing. It was ruled that they had acted within Commonwealth dictates in acting “under a justifiable circumstance where an act of violence against Commonwealth or Church property or persons shall be met with all force necessary to negate the effects of such violence.” This provision was ruled to have taken effect when the AAnn ships had engaged stingship number twenty-five in combat. That ship number twenty-five had provoked the encounter was a point that the court would “take under careful study . . . at length.”
Ensigns Bran Tse-Mallory and Truzenzu of the Zex were ordered stripped of all rank and dismissed from the service. As a preliminary, however, they were to be awarded the Church Order of Merit, one star cluster. This was done. Unofficially, each was also presented with a scroll on which those citizens of the colony-planet known as Goodhunting had inscribed their names and thanks . . . all two hundred and ninety-five thousand of them.
Major Julio Gonzalez was promoted to commander and transferred immediately to a quiet desk post in an obscure system populated by semi-intelligent amphibians.
After first being formally inducted into his ship-brother’s clan, the Zex, Bran had entered the Church and had become deeply absorbed in the Chancellory of Alien Sociology, winning degrees and honors there. Truzenzuzex remained on his home planet of Willow-Wane and resumed his preservice studies in psychology and theoretical history. The title of Eint was granted shortly after. Their interests converged independently until both were immersed in the study of the ancient Tar-Aiym civilization-empire. Ten years had passed before they had remet, and they bad been together ever since, an arrangement which neither had had cause to regret.
“Buy a winter suit, sir? The season is fast nearing, and the astrologers forecast cold and sleet. The finest Pyrrm pelts, good sir!”
“Pas? No. No thank you, vendor.” The turnout to their little inn loomed just ahead, by the seller of prayer-bells.
Bran felt an uncommonly strong need of sleep.
Chapter Six
Flinx returned to his apartment to set himself in order for the trip. On the way back from the inurb he had stopped at a shop he knew well and purchased a small ship-bag. It was of a type he’d often seen carried by crewmen at the port and would do equally as well for him. It was light, had a built-in sensor lock on the seal, and was well-nigh indestructible. They haggled formally over the price, finally settling on the sum of nine-six point twenty credits. He could probably have cut the price another credit, but was too occupied by thoughts of the trip, so much so that the vendor inquired as to his health.
At the apartment he wasn’t too surprised to find that all his possessions of value or usefulness fit easily into the one bag. He felt only a slight twinge of regret. He looked around for something else to take, but the bed wouldn’t fit, nor would the portikitchen, and he doubted there’d be a shortage of either on the ship anyway. Memories were stored comfortably elsewhere. He shouldered the bag and left the empty room.
The concierge looked at him warily as he prepared to leave her the keys. She was generally a good woman, but inordinately suspicious. In reply to her persistent questioning he said only that he was departing on a journey of some length and had no idea when he would return. No, he wasn’t “running from the law.” He could see that the woman was suffering from a malady known as tri-dee addiction, and her imagination had been drugged in proportion. Would she hold the room for his return? She would . . . for four months’ rent, in advance if you please. He paid it rather than stand and argue. It took a large slice out of the hundred credits he’d made so recently, but he found that he was in a hurry to spend the money as quickly as possible.
He strolled out into the night. His mind considered sleep but his body, tense with the speed at which events had been moving around him, vehemently disagreed. Sleep was impossible. And it was pleasant out. He moved out into the lights and noise, submerging himself in the familiar frenzy of the marketplace. He savored the night-smells of the food crescent, the raucous hooting of the barkers and sellers and vendors, greeting those he knew and smiling wistfully at an occasional delicate face peeping out from the pastel-lit windows of the less reputable saloons.
Sometimes he would spot an especially familiar face. Then he would saunter over and the two would chat amiably for a while, swapping the stories and gossip of which Flinx always had a plentiful supply. Then the rich trader or poor beggar would rub his red hair for luck and they’d part—this time, at least, for longer than the night.
If a jungle could be organized and taxed, it would be called Drallar.
He had walked nearly a mile when he noticed the slight lightening of the western sky that signified the approach of first-fog (there being no true dawn on Moth). The time had run faster than expected. He should be at the port shortly, but there remained one last thing to do.
He turned sharply to his right and hurried down several alleys and backways he knew well. Nearer the center of the marketplace, which was quieter at night than the outskirts, he came on a sturdy if small frame building. It advertised on its walls metal products of all kinds for sale. There was a combination lock, a relic, on the inside of the door, but he knew how to circumvent that. He was careful to close it quietly behind him.
It was dark in the little building but light seeped in around the open edges of the roof, admitting air but not thieves. He stole softly to a back room, not needing even the dim light. An old woman lay there, snoring softly on a simple but luxuriously blanketed bed. Her breathing was shallow but steady, and there was what might have been a knowing smile on the ancient face. That was nonsense, of course. He stood staring silently at the wrinkled parchment visage for several long moments. Then he bent. Gently shifting the well-combed white hair to one side he planted a single kiss on the bony cheek. The woman stirred but did not awaken. He backed out of the room as quietly as he had entered, remembering to lock the main door behind him.
Then he turned and set off at a brisk jog in the direction of the shuttleport, Pip dozing stonelike on one shoulder.
Chapter Seven
The great port lay a considerable distance from the city, so that its noise, fumes, and
bustling commerce would not interfere with the business of the people or the sleep of the king. It was too far to walk. He hailed a Meepah-beast rickshaw and the driver sent the fleet-footed creature racing for the port. The Meepahs were fast and could dodge jams of more modern traffic. It was a sporting way to travel, and the moist wind whistling past his face wiped away the slight vestiges of sleepiness which had begun to overtake him. As the animals were pure sprinters and good for only one long run an hour they were also expensive. They flew past slower vehicles and great hoverloaders bringing tons of goods to and from the port. As they had for centuries and doubtless would for centuries to come, the poor of Moth walked along the sides of the highway. There were none of the public moving walkways on Moth that could be found in profusion in the capitals of more civilized planets. Besides being expensive, the nomad populace tended to cut them up for the metal.
When he reached an area away from the bustling commercial pits that he thought would be close to the private docks, he paid off the driver, debarked, and hurried off into the geat tubular buildings. He knew more than a little of the layout of the great port from his numerous trips here as a child. Where his interest in the place had sprung from he couldn’t guess. Certainly not from Mother Mastiff! But ever since an early age he’d been fascinated by the port for the link it provided with other worlds and races. When he had been able to steal away from that watchful parental eye he’d come here, often walking the entire distance on short, unsteady legs. He’d sit for hours at the feet of grizzled old crewmen who chuckled at his interest and spun their even older tales of the void and the pinpricks of life and consciousness scattered through it for his eager mind and the fawning attention he gave freely. There were times when he’d stay till after dark. Then he’d sneak ever so carefully home, always into the waiting, scolding arms of Mother Mastiff. But at the port he was all but mesmerized. His favorites had been the stories of the interstellar freighters, those huge, balloonlike vessels that plied the distances between the inhabited worlds, transporting strange cargoes and stranger passengers. Why sonny, they’d tell him, if’n it weren’t fer the freighters, the hull damn uneeverse ‘ud collapse, ‘an Chaos himself ‘ud return t’ rule!
Now maybe he’d have a chance to see one of those fabulous vessels in person.
A muted growl went audible behind him and he turned to see the bulky shape of a cargo shuttle leap spaceward, trailing its familiar tail of cream and crimson. The sound-absorbing material in its pit was further abetted by the layered glass of the building itself in muffling the scream of the rockets and ramjets. It was a sight he’d seen many times before, but a little piece of him still seemed to go spaceward with each flight. He hurried on, searching for a dock steward.
Approximately every fifteen minutes a shuttle landed or took off from Drallar port. And it was by no means the only one on the planet. Some of the private ports managed by the lumbering companies were almost as big. The shuttles took out woods, wood products, furs, light metals, foodstuffs; brought in machinery, luxury goods, traders, and touristas. There! Checking bales of plastic panels was the white and black checkered uniform of a steward. He hurried over.
The man took in Flinx’s clothing, age, and ship-bag and balanced these factors against the obviously dangerous reptile coiled alertly now about the boy’s shoulder. He debated whether or not to answer the brief question Flinx put to him. Another, senior steward pulled up on a scoot, slowed and stopped.
“Trouble, Prin?”
The steward looked gratefully to his superior. “This . . . person . . . wishes directions to the House of Malaika’s private docks.”
“Um.” The older man considered Flinx, who waited patiently. He’d expected something of this sort, but read only good intentions on the elder’s part. “Tell him, then. ‘Twill do no harm to let him have a gander at the ships, and mayhap he has real reason for being there. I’ve seen queerer board Malaika’s craft.” The man revved his scoot and darted off down the vaulting hallway.
“Pit five, second transverse tube on your left,” the man said reluctantly. “And mind you go nowhere else!”
But Flinx had already started off in the indicated direction.
It wasn’t hard to find, but the telescoping rampway seemed endless. It was a relief to see the tall figure of the merchant waiting for him.
“Glad to see you show, kijana!” he bellowed, slapping Flinx on the back. Fortunately, he managed to avoid most of the blow. Pip stirred slightly, startled. “You’re the last to arrive. Everyone else is already aboard and safely tucked away. Give your pack to the steward and strap in. We’re just ready to cut.”
Malaika disappeared forward and Flinx gave his bag to the officious-looking young fellow who wore the House of Malaika arms (crossed starship and credit slip) on his cap and jacket. The man ducked into a low door to the rear, leaving Flinx alone in the small lock. Rather than stand by himself until the man returned to check him off, he moved forward to the passenger cabin and found himself an empty seat.
Since this was a private and not a commercial shuttle, it was smaller than most. There were only ten seats in the low, slim compartment. The craft was obviously not designed for extended journeys. The decoration verged on the baroque. He peered down the narrow aisle.
The first two seats were occupied by Malaika and his Lynx, Sissiph. She was clad in a bulky jumpsuit for a change, but it served only to emphasize the beauty of her face. In the second row Bran Tse-Mallory and Truzenzuzex were leaning into the aisle, arguing animatedly but amiably on some subject which remained incomprehensible to Flinx on every level of perception. Then came their two starship pilots, Atha Moon and the shadow man, Wolf. Both were staring intently, but at different things. Atha was gazing out the port, observing what she could of their normal preparations for lift. The man’s eyes were focused unwaveringly on an invisible point six inches in front of his nose. His face was, as usual, utterly devoid of expression. He remained unreadable.
Atha’s attention seemed to vary awkwardly between the outside of their tiny vessel and the front of the cabin. She was continually darting her head into the aisle or poking it above the back of the seat in front of her. Especially whenever an unusually loud giggle or chuckle came from that vicinity. Probably she thought herself inconspicuous. Perhaps she hadn’t noticed him come aboard behind her. In any event she seemed unconcerned about Wolf’s presence, Even from here he could see the way the muscles in her neck and cheeks tightened, the way her blood pressure changed and her breathing increased, in response to the by-play from up front. It was mild, but still. . . . He shook his head. They hadn’t even reached their ship yet and already an explosive situation was building. He could not tell how long it had been forming, but he did know one thing. He personally had no wish to be around when it finally came to a head.
He wondered if Malaika had the slightest inkling that his personal pilot of six years was hopelessly in love with him.
There were several empty seats, so he chose the one behind Atha. Not that he preferred it so much to any other, but he preferred to stay as far away as possible from the enigmatic Wolf. He couldn’t read the man, so he was still unsure of him. As he had on numerous other occasions, he wished his peculiar talents wouldn’t be so capricious in their operation. But when he directed his attention to Wolf there was only an oddly diffuse blank. It was like trying to fathom a heavy mist. Dew did not hold the symbols well.
A brief admonition came over the cabin speaker and Flinx felt the ship tilt under him. It was being raised hydraulically. Shortly it had settled steady at its liftoff angle of seventy degrees.
Another problem brought itself to his notice as he was strapping himself in. Pip was still coiled comfortably about his left shoulder. This definitely was not going to work! How were they going to handle the minidrag? He motioned the steward over. The man struggled up the aisle by means of handles set into the sides of the chairs. He eyed the snake warily and became a bit more polite.
“Well, sir, it s
eems to be capable of keeping a pretty firm grip with that tail. It can’t stay like it is, though, because on lift it’d be crushed between your shoulder and the chair.” The way he said it made it plain that he wouldn’t mind observing that eventuality. He went back down the aisle.
Flinx looked around and finally managed to urge the snake onto the thick arm of the seat opposite his. Since Pip was an arboreal creature, Flinx was much more concerned about how it would react to the pressure of liftoff than to the condition of weightlessness. Not to mention how he’d manage himself.
He needn’t have worried. The luxurious little craft lifted so smoothly that pressure was practically nonexistent, even when the rockets took over from the ramjets. It was no worse than a heavy blanket on his chest, pressing him gently back into the padded seat. The muted hum of the rockets barely penetrated the well-shielded cabin. Overall, he felt only a mild sense of disorientation. By contrast, Pip appeared positively ecstatic. Then he remembered that Pip had been brought to Moth by spaceship and had therefore undergone this same experience at least twice before. His apprehensions had been groundless. But they had served to take his mind off the flight. Another glance at the minidrag showed the narrow head weaving from side to side while the single-tipped tongue darted rapidly to and fro, touching everything within reach. The pleated wings were unfurled and flapping in sheer pleasure.
After the rockets cut off and the little ship drifted weightlessly, Flinx felt acclimated enough to reach over and pick up the snake. He replaced it on its familiar spot on his shoulder. The confident pressure on his arm and back was, as ever, reassuring. Besides, the darn thing was having entirely too much fun. And the one thing they definitely did not need at the outset of their expedition was the venomous reptile flapping crazily in free-fall about the confined space of the cabin.
The Tar-aiym Krang Page 9
